


Sinister, Dexter

by one_windiga



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Archenemies - Freeform, Gloves, Hands, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_windiga/pseuds/one_windiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock hates not knowing things.  What is merely an inconvenience to most people is, to him, a cruel twist of fate. When he is nine, he bribes Mycroft to hack into the police database and read the files on John Watson and Jim Moriarty."</p><p>Everyone is born with a name on either hand - one is their soul mate, and one is their archenemy.  Sherlock is born with Jim and John on his hands, and must decide which is which.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinister, Dexter

Sherlock hates not knowing things.

What is merely an inconvenience to most people is, to him, a cruel twist of fate. When he is nine, he bribes Mycroft to hack into the police database and read the files on John Watson and Jim Moriarty.

Both of their photographs are distressingly normal. They are both somewhat short, though John is more solidly built than Jim, even at a young age. John has a small plaster to his forehead in his school portrait, which Sherlock quickly deduces is from football practice. He spends hours debating whether this is a pro or a con. John is athletic – this could be useful, and could show team-oriented behavior and assertiveness. But perhaps he would expect Sherlock to run laps with him or some nonsense like that? Or the injury might indicate recklessness in his sports playing, an early sign of poor judgment and bad behavior.

Jim’s photograph reveals even less. There’s a frayed edge on his collar that Sherlock knows means it’s on its last legs; the boy comes from a rather poor family. Will this mean he will work harder to compensate, or grow embittered by his starting point? He could become a gang banger, but just as easily a social worker.

Every time he takes a bath, he sits for at least fifteen minutes, rubbing slowly at his palms, while the words neatly scribed on his skin stubbornly refuse to fade.

\---

Three weeks after Sherlock’s tenth birthday, Parliament finally approves a measure forcing all pubic records behind strict access laws. Files are only available after explicit written approval and requisition forms have been stamped, even for law personnel. Personal files are given a base classification label.

They say that it’s to prevent misuse and encourage higher national security.

Everyone knows what it really is. It took them long enough, but Parliament’s finally cottoned on to the fact that hacking a police database is child’s play in this half of the twentieth century. With the harsh sentences attached to violations of the law, it quickly stamps out the embers of a black-market identity forum catering to those who wanted to track down their names; some are only looking for love, but others are looking to strike first and leave no possibility for a counterattack.

Mycroft finds Sherlock in the wreckage of what had been his ant farm – an impressive, multi-celled setup that was more of an empire than a farm – sitting in the cloud of broken glass, sand, and slowly swarming dots of black.

\---

“It’s easy for you.” Sherlock’s tone is more accusatory than, perhaps, the situation calls for.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him, which looks rather odd on his thirteen-year-old features. Adults have already begun to comment on how strangely mature he acts. Sherlock is just as brilliant, but is surpassingly immature.

“Is that so?”

“Oh, come off it. Gregory Lestrade and Budail Shia-Agil. It doesn’t get more obvious than that, Mycroft.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken. Perhaps you are too quick to assume.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“And perhaps,” Mycroft continues archly, ignoring Sherlock’s expression, “I would have enjoyed the puzzle of not knowing. Have you considered that?”

Sherlock’s mouth twists sourly.

\---

Mummy buys him new gloves every spring and fall, like clockwork. His gloves are always cut in a classic fashion, made of soft kid leather, smooth under his fingers like butter. Sometimes he fancies that the fact that Mummy bought them for him means that they will provide less of a clue about him to any strangers he meets with half a brain. After all, he can read so much from the gloves of all the crowds of passerby.

White satin, frayed on the hems, elegant sensibilities without the budget to sustain them, patched faithfully, a woman who cares for her things more than her laissez-faire persona implies.

Black leather, metal studs to the knuckles, tough, the scratch over the index and middle finger studs shows a recent fistfight.

Nude cotton, making quite a statement, trying to look rebellious without actually revealing any vulnerable information, a teenager putting on airs of attitudes but lacking the courage to follow through.

But then he looks down at his hands – chocolate kid leather, chocolate is the new black, slight dull to the sheen of the fingertips, indicating significant use, chemical burn to the thumb, rich parents, waning respect for them, waxing interest in the hard sciences, questionable habit of cracking knuckles, and –

Sherlock snaps his eyes away.

He simply has to have faith in the stupidity of humanity.

\---

There are theories floating around, in the way that theories always do, finding temporary mooring among certain groups, being bandied about, and eventually disappearing into the sea of ideas until someone else will fish them out again and patch their holes.

The most popular goes that the right hand name is soul mate, while the left hand name is the archenemy. That one’s been around for, quite literally, millennia. The etymologists say that the Latin term of “sinister,” which originally meant “left,” evolved to accommodate the term “evil” for just this reason, and the term is still used in English today.

Other groups are convinced in a somewhat more nuanced approach, which states that the dominant hand of the individual bears the name of the soul mate, while the secondary hand bears the name of the archenemy.

As far as Sherlock is concerned, he remains skeptical. The only data available on the theories, while they vary between experiments, hovers around 62%, with quite wide standard deviations and high p values. The variations are only barely statistically significant. Even then, he is very hesitant to assign causation over correlation, and suspects that the higher probability is caused by a self-fulfilling prophecy rather than a real relation.

He’s published his opinions quite vocally online, but nobody seems to care.

\---

Mummy never takes off her gloves.

Of course, nobody would be so gauche as to remove their gloves in public, or even with day-to-day friends, but in the home and with family, it’s expected. Even Sherlock eats his dinner bare-handed, the chill of the silverware feeling strange against his skin, the way it only does when he’s spent all day gloved. But Mummy keeps her gloves on, even at the dining table. He’s never seen her without them.

Sometimes, when his mind drifts to shadowier places, he wonders if it’s because neither name is Father’s.

But that’s ridiculous, because they’ve been married for ages, and he’d have to know.

Wouldn’t he?

\---

When Sherlock is fifteen, he steals money from Mummy’s secret roll of cash in her Ming vase. Donning a hoodie he would never otherwise be caught dead in, he changes his gait so that it matches the low-slung, large-shoes step of all the other teenage hoodlums. He buys a train ticket across the country.

Jim’s house is exactly what he expected. Small, rickety, not exactly in disrepair, but noticeably off from the houses around it. He is standing on the sidewalk when a voice catches him from behind.

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume.” The speaker’s lips roll ever so slowly across the vowels and consonants of his name, tasting them individually as they cross his tongue.

Sherlock spins quickly.

Jim Moriarty is watching him from across the street, hands tucked in his pockets. He casts Sherlock a long glance, looking over him from head to toe in an instant, and Sherlock has never known what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that sort of look before; at least, from anyone other than Mycroft.

He finds himself unable to stop staring at Jim, deducing everything he can, drinking him in like a man wandering the desert for months.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to show up,” Jim shoots with a smirk, and yes, there’s that faint coloring of a Northern accent Sherlock expected. “Fifteen years. That’s a bit of time, even for you. Not at all curious?”

“Not uncurious. Simply otherwise occupied.”

Jim makes a disappointed noise.

Neither of them move to cross the street, but they watch each other like hawks.

“You are…” Sherlock begins, but trails off.

“So much better than you expected?” There’s the smirk again, wider and sharper. “Absolutely brilliant? Surprisingly chiseled?”

“ – fascinating,” Sherlock finishes. And for all of the quips and snarky compliments Jim had offered, this one – this honest, unasked for one – seems to take him by surprise.

“I am, that,” he says, and doesn’t mean it at all as bragging.

And Sherlock knows.

\---

The train rumbles on across hills and moors, and eventually deposits him in a sleepy town just east of Hereford. Sunset has come and gone, so this town is quieter. When he finally gets to John’s house, the windows are glowing orange with the lights inside, and there is the distant sound of plates clinking and voices.

He examines the house for several minutes, but when he finally knocks on the door and claims to be John’s friend from Chemistry class, Mrs. Watson informs him with an apologetic smile that John’s off for the weekend on a class field trip. Sherlock thanks her and shuffles off as she closes the door.

Once she’s back inside, though, he turns back to watch. Through the occasional silhouette on the drapes, the almost-audible voices, and the flickering light of the telly, he deduces thirty-eight things about their family.

Truly, though, he couldn’t care less about the Watson family, except that they have a bearing on John Watson, and that makes this relevant data.

Another twelve minutes, and the count is up to forty-four.

He finally leaves when one of the neighbors comes outside to bring her rubbish to the bin and gives him a funny look.

When he returns home to the Holmes manor, Mummy is so cross that Sherlock is grounded until Christmas. Even after that, he is watched carefully.

No more stalking Jim and John, he thinks snidely, makes this all very difficult.

\---

It might have been easier, Sherlock believes, if this was only about what _was_. Except it’s not. The whole problem is that it’s about what _could be_.

Sherlock is second-to-none at deducing what was. He can look at a person and tell you their every move for the past twenty-four hours without breaking a sweat.

But predicting what could be?

Even Sherlock can’t do that.

He can hardly tell who Jim or John will be in five years, fifteen, fifty. Will they get cancer? Will they become millionaires? Will they trade jokes with him over tea and toast in the morning? Will they break his nose the first time that he inevitably lets them down?

Sherlock hates could be’s.

\---

The first time that Sherlock meets John, he is rather entranced with a particularly curious variety of mold. He’s switching between objectives on the microscope when the door opens, and normally he couldn’t care less. In fact, he doesn’t even raise his head. But when his eyes flick over, he stops.

And his mouth says, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” but his brain is flying off the rails at hundreds of kilometers a second, hurtling off into a fiery explosion of deduction after deduction, clues and quirks and findings and everything everything everything.

John is startled, of course. Everyone is. Sherlock pushes ahead with his deductions, rambles them aloud, and makes a hasty exit, momentarily overwhelmed.

It’s only after he’s shut the door that he realizes he never introduced himself. Considering the fact that John’s name is on his palm – and that, hopefully, his name is on _one_ of John’s – that is a rather egregious oversight. He pops his head back in to remark, “the name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street,” before smiling like he knows what he’s doing and disappearing down the hall again.

And the six and a half seconds between saying his name and disappearing give him a mountain of conclusions based on John’s expression alone.

He was shocked.

He hadn’t researched Sherlock, not once, hadn’t the slightest idea what the man looked like or did. Despite the fact that John was clearly a curious man, he’d displayed the herculean self control to abstain from looking up anyone on either hand in order to let events progress naturally.

And in an instant, Sherlock finds himself half in love already.

Still.

That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, he reflects as he hurries down the hall. After all, one is half in love with one’s archenemies. That’s what obsession is – being half in love, and doubly in hate.

Sometimes Sherlock thinks that he makes things too complicated. Other times he thinks he hasn’t managed to break the surface of the complication of reality.

\---

John thinks that he’s subtle.

Sherlock catches him watching him out of the corner of his eyes sometimes when they’re at the flat, when he thinks Sherlock isn’t watching. Occasionally, he’ll let one hand drop to the other, absently tracing a finger across it, not even realizing he’s doing it.

Sherlock is on his left palm.

Of course, John says nothing about this. He is polite and cordial. He would never dream of forcing onto Sherlock any relationship that he didn’t desire, and considering how little clues Sherlock’s given him on the subject of sexuality, that means that John is left treading water. Sherlock doesn’t let on that he knows his name is inked on John’s skin, plumbed into the depths of every cell down to the bone.

But it is very difficult not to think about it.

\---

There are days when John is out of the flat, taking the shifts at the clinic that nobody wants, that Sherlock trods downstairs to see Mrs. Hudson, throwing himself gracelessly and without asking onto her couch. Some days she tuts, pours him a cup, and settles down across from him. Some days she ignores him entirely beyond raising her eyebrows in a pointed way.

“I always knew I picked wrong,” she says one evening, out of the blue. She’s standing over the sink, hands bare, wet, sudsy from washing dishes. She has paused from picking up plates, peering instead at the names on her palms that don’t wash off or fade, no matter how waterlogged her skin gets.

Sherlock doesn’t ask what she means. He’s not sure if this is the right response, but after a few minutes, she picks up a bowl and goes back to washing.

\---

Sherlock has grown used to John’s gloves. They are knit, striped in shades of brown, and fingerless. Warm, modest, and eminently aware of the many uses of bare fingers. They are surpassingly practical, just like John.

It comes as a bit of a shock the first time that John takes them off around him. They have been rooming together for two months, and Sherlock had thought that they were in a comfortable stasis. He is put rather off balance by being wrong.

On the other hand, this also means that John considers them close enough to bare even these close secrets in front of him. Sherlock becomes ever so slightly dizzy when he thinks about that one too hard, so he simply doesn’t.

It doesn’t stop him, though, from letting his curiosity propel him across the room to hover over John’s chair and peer at his palms.

The left reads Sherlock Holmes, as expected. The right reads –

“Richard Brook,” John says at the same time Sherlock reads it, then tilts and cranes his neck to peer at him despite the bad angle. “I’ve never met him.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Sherlock replies, because that’s obvious.

“I just meant – just so you know. That’s all.”

John’s only answer is one of Sherlock’s vague grunts. John’s grown quite proficient in translating those grunts to English, but sometimes even he is floundered by the more apathetic ones.

Heedless, John continues, turning his head back to look at his hands. “Can’t imagine what he’d do to me to piss me off so much.” He pauses, then amends, “Always sort of imagined it was more of a ‘me and mine’ than just a ‘me’ thing. You know I have a bit of a problem with that.” It is a rather roundabout and tactful way of stating that John would not hesitate to track down and revenge a friend or loved one, but would never think of doing the same to someone who had slighted _him_. Sherlock always liked that about him. He himself was never that selfless.

“You’ve already decided he’s your archenemy? You haven’t even met him. He could be your soul mate,” Sherlock notes, and it’s only the repetition of having to say ‘soul mate’ for years and years that allows him to say the clichéd term without sneering.

“No,” John says, with a thoughtful tone. “No, I don’t think he is.”

\---

The pool is muggy and damp, and the smell of chlorine is distracting his thought processes.

But it is impossible to pay attention to anything other than John when he leaps onto Jim’s back and tells him to run.

It is equally impossible to obey and leave him there.

Jim recovers quickly and the lasers train on Sherlock, which makes John drop off of Jim quite quickly. But the damage is done, and Jim doesn’t even know, because Sherlock’s mind is replaying the last twenty seconds in an endless loop, repeating and repeating like a video tape that will never fuzz out.

John and Jim have both killed for him. And that is quite a lot to ask for; another man would never even dream of asking for it.

But John has now demonstrated that he is not only willing to kill for Sherlock, but he is willing to die for him. And Sherlock is struck, suddenly and blindingly, with the certainty that Jim would not sacrifice himself for Sherlock’s safety. He would murder those who dared to harm him, he would plot against them, he would perhaps even die in the process, but he would never step in front of him and take a bullet meant for Sherlock.

And just like that, twenty-six years of indecision disappear. It was John, it was always John, and it will always be John.

Jim traipses out of the room, only to return a moment later.

He stares at John as the corollary decision follows a moment later. If John is his, then Jim is his archenemy.

He slowly turns his eyes towards Jim and points the gun at the bomb.

\---

Three weeks after the Pool Incident, and Sherlock hasn’t managed to say anything to John.

He is excellent at explaining things. Explaining things is his job. He talks to John for what must be hours upon hours every day, and most of those hours, John is actually in the room with him, which for Sherlock, is quite an accomplishment. But somehow, watching John turn on the kettle in the kitchen, the words do not come.

Instead, Irene Adler graces their doorstep. She does not wear gloves. Her nude hands are shocking and sexual in public, soft ivory skin wicked when seen in a crowd of yarn, leather, and lace. On each palm, she bears large black rose tattoos, blocking out the names. The flesh there is scarred; palm tattoos are notorious for fading fast, and she has re-inked them several times already. The pain must have been incredible, but Sherlock finds himself briefly envious of the opacity, of the shield that the tattoos provide, taking her vulnerability and hiding it behind iron black.

And then he looks at John, who is looking at the way Sherlock and Irene are staring at each other, his eyes crinkling unhappily and mouth twisted downwards, and Sherlock decides that perhaps tattoos are not the solution.

\---

John is storming out of the room, and Sherlock is left with his own mistake ringing in his ears. _“I don’t have friends!”_ It’s true. It’s a rational, reasonable statement, that qualifies for truth in every respect, but as John disappears through the doorway, it strikes Sherlock that perhaps it also gives the wrong impression. True is well and good, but truth can be misleading.

He mulls over it, and when he finally manages to apologize, he chooses his words carefully.

“I don’t have friends, John, I just have _you_.”

There is a small part of him that hopes that John will put it together, will notice that he picked the word ‘you’ rather than the word ‘one;’ the latter would imply that John is only a friend, but the former only states that John is all he needs. In any capacity.

Except John is brilliant at many things, but he is not a deductive genius, and though he is far more fluent in Sherlock than just about any normal person Sherlock has ever met, it doesn’t click for him. Sherlock growls in frustration.

“You don’t understand!”

“No! No, I don’t, so if you could take a moment and explain for those of us in the class that are a bit _slow_ ,” John snaps, hands on his hips.

“I never said that you were slow –”

“You say it all the time.”

“I don’t use the term –”

“Yes, you do, you said the exact word ‘ _slow_ ’ on St. Patrick’s day. Also, that time you destroyed the kettle.”

“It was for an experiment!”

“So you said at the time.” John isn’t budging.

This isn’t helping.

“This isn’t helping!”

“You think?” John replies, raising his eyebrows.

“What I meant was –”

“What _did_ you mean? Because I think it got lost in the ‘I don’t have friends, and you certainly don’t count’ lecture.”

Which is wrong, all wrong, _not at all_ what he was trying to say, and when did he lose his facility with words?

“Fine!” He’s a scientist. When words fail, empirical evidence and observable actions are more effective. He puts a hand on either side of John’s face, leans down, and kisses him hard.

There is a long moment that stretches out in which John is still as a statue against him. When he finally does move, his hands fist and thump against Sherlock’s chest, and it’s almost a punch, but not quite. And then his hands unclench and grab hold of the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, and he’s returning the kiss with a force that might have been shocking to anyone that didn’t know him as well as Sherlock.

Sherlock shifts his hands to John’s shoulders, then lets them slide around his waist, and John is pulling at the buttons of his shirt. Somehow they end up pressed against the ivy on the wall of the pub, and even though there’s nobody about, it feels scandalous. Sherlock can all but feel John thinking that they’re acting like teenagers. He doesn’t particularly care.

\---

The first night that John falls asleep in Sherlock’s bed, Sherlock lies awake, watching him. He examines every inch of him slowly, silently, in the thin light that creeps under the door.

He takes John’s hand in his, gently spreading his fingers, and runs a thumb over his own name. He can’t help but wonder if John ever sat in his bathtub as a child and tried to rub out the name Sherlock Holmes from his skin. He doubts it. But some part of Sherlock finds the idea terrifying, in a way that he’s never felt afraid before. He dislikes the feeling more than he dislikes most feelings.

But John chose him, and he chose John, and Jim can’t take that away if he tries.

\---

Jim tries.

\---

“I always knew it would come down to this,” Jim says, smoothing the front of his Armani jacket. “I like to think that you did, too.”

Sherlock sneers slightly, but it’s true.

“There are really only two options, you know. Either you join me, or I kill you.”

“You’re flagging, Jim. You’re beginning to sound like a cartoon supervillain.”

Jim grins, and Sherlock wonders how he never noticed when he was fifteen the way that Jim’s grin lights up black and wicked and cold fire. “A cartoon supervillain? You know just what to say to a boy, don’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock continues on as if Jim hadn’t said anything. “’Join me or I kill you,’ honestly.”

“Except you know it’s not just that. You know better. It’s not just killing you, it’s killing your _name_. Hideous Sherlock, couldn’t lay off of poor Richard Brook Sherlock. And I wouldn’t stop there. It’d be you, and then your pet doctor, and then that detective of yours, and your landlady, and your brother, and the woman, and then maybe the queen, just for shits and giggles.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flare. “If you’re trying to convince me to join you, this isn’t the most effective way.”

“That wasn’t trying to convince you, Sherlock,” Jim says, and sounds rather disappointed in Sherlock. “ _This_ is trying to convince you.”

He takes a few steps towards Sherlock, slowly, talking as he does. “We’re geniuses, you and I. Not play geniuses, ‘oh, isn’t little Sally such a genius’ geniuses, we’re _look at that_ freak _geniuses,_ ” he spits, “how can they _stand_ him geniuses, everyone always hates you geniuses even though _they’re ants compared to you geniuses._ ” His easy lilting voice has dropped down an octave into ice, and it echoes dimly around the basement.

“We could light the world on fire, you and I, Sherlock.” Jim stops a foot away from him, and there is a strange light of madness in his eyes, and damn it if Sherlock doesn’t still find him fascinating. “You know it as well as I do. We make national security look like a child with a foam sword. Want to be the new Czar of Russia? _You can be_. Want to build a laboratory the size of London to test whatever you feel like, no rules, no limits, nobody looking over your shoulder and telling you that it’s wrong? _You can do it_. Or do you just want to watch little Peter Norrington and Thomas Hart from primary school _bleed_ for that day in the alley? _It’s yours._ ” He leans over to Sherlock, whispers in his ear, his breath hot against Sherlock’s skin. “I can give you anything, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is still for a paralyzing minute, drawing in a long breath of air. “That’s not necessary. I have everything I need.”

Jim leans back, face twisting and monstrous. _“No you don’t!”_

“I have John.”

And he knows as he says it that it’s the final nail in the coffin, that by saying it, Jim will never forgive him, no matter what he does. He says it anyway.

Because Jim didn’t mention the third option. Either Sherlock joins him, Jim kills him, or he kills Jim.

“You don’t _get it_ , Sherlock!” He roughly yanks off his gloves, one at a time, and they fall to the floor. He holds up both hands, pushing them at Sherlock.

The left reads, _Sherlock Holmes._

The right reads, _Sherlock Holmes._

“It was always only you, Sherlock,” he whispers, and it’s sharp and ugly and hurt and hateful. “So either you’re walking out of here with me, or one of us isn’t walking out.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “You’re right.”

Mycroft’s spec-ops team opens fire from the shadows in the ceiling, and Jim crumples to the ground.

Sherlock isn’t sure if he’s imagining the faint twist of satisfaction on Jim’s lips, or if he’s just going a little mad.

\---

There are no lights and sirens outside when Sherlock emerges. Mycroft does not work with lights and sirens, he works with silence. Sherlock casts a nod to him, which is as far as he is willing to go with a ‘thank you,’ and heads out to the sidewalk.

Far enough away from Mycroft’s black town car, he tugs off his left glove and examines his palm. Part of him almost expects Jim’s name to have disappeared now that the man has, but of course, that’s not how it works. He gets to keep the name inked on him forever as a reminder that he had Jim Moriarty killed for wanting things – Sherlock, excitement, puzzles, the world – too much. And he knows that the game will never be the same, he will never be the same, and he is suddenly and terrifying unsure of how he will survive this. Part of him is hesitant to tell John what happened, but the other part of him wants him to know, to show him what he did for him.

As if on cue, a cab door slams shut across the street, and John climbs out. Mycroft has already managed to cross the road to stand next to him and murmur quietly at him, in the way that Mycroft always manages to be where he needs to be half a second before the world knows it. Sherlock looks away and pulls his glove back on.

A few minutes later, John walks over to him and hovers by Sherlock’s elbow. They stand silently next to each other before John finally asks, “You okay?” And it’s not so much the question as all the questions it _isn’t_ that makes Sherlock stop.

He pauses, licks his lips. “I’m fine.”

John searches his face sharply, then nods. “You saved a lot of lives today, you know that, right?”

“Of course.” And that’s not why he did it, not even _close_ to why he did it, but John always tries to make him out to be more noble than he really is, and some days, it’s difficult not to let him.

John claps him on the shoulder with his left hand – Sherlock can’t help but think, _it says Sherlock Holmes_ \- and smiles his sunny smile. “Right, then. Let’s go home. What do you think, Chinese?”

And just like that, everything is wonderful.

 

_Fin_  



End file.
